Butterfly
by piratestripes
Summary: Evey's about to take a shower, and V can't help but ponder... No spoilers, but mild imagery.


_Disclaimer_: I don't own V or Evey or anything having to do with VFV. If I did I wouldn't be assisting doctor's in a dental clinic, right? 

I wrote this a while ago and have it posted on my VFV fanfic archive (see my profile for link), so I thought I'd post it here too. No spoilers. Enjoy! 

**Butterfly**  
by pirateystripes

I've always known the rumors of women's meticulousness when it came to their appearance, to their bodies, and Evey is a woman no different concerning her diligence in that particular field. 

Every evening, at almost precisely 8 o'clock, she gathers her nighttime garments from her bedroom, her hairbrushes and combs, toothbrush and toothpaste, shampoos and other sweetly smelling concoctions, and heads to the bathroom to begin her nocturnal regiment. 

She lets me know where she's heading before she proceeds, as if she must ask me permission to pursue her most basic of womanly needs. I realize that this, the Shadow Gallery, is not her home, but mine. It must be uncomfortable for her to primp and bathe in the strange abode of what she must believe to be an equally strange man, but she is a woman after all, and will utilize whatever accommodations she presently has at hand to carry out her transformation. 

When I hear the unmistakable sound of the shower running, I smile briefly beneath my façade, and continue reading the dusty, yellowed novel that sits before me. 

But my mind isn't terribly focused on the story at hand; instead I'm drawn into the events taking place behind the closed door of Evey's veritable cocoon. Though I am no expert on the secretive modus operandi that women do to perfect themselves, I do know Evey well enough to speculate on the order in which she chooses to do things. 

She'll begin with her hair, of course. She prides herself on her curled locks, though she probably doesn't even realize it. She's taken care of it for so long that it's become routine to her. She reaches up to remove the pins and clips that secure it firmly to the top of her head. It cascades down her back like a waterfall, untamed now, spilling and weaving out around her shoulders, but she doesn't take notice. She probably doesn't even discern the gossamer patina of it in the dim wattage of the bathroom. 

She reaches for her hairbrush and then gently, almost reverently, pulls it through the soft coils, avoiding snagging and catching the twisted ends on the sharp bristles. The brush glides through her hair for nearly one hundred strokes, never any more, but never any less. She marvels at her own handiwork for a moment, and when she's assured that all knots have been properly eradicated, she turns her attentions to her own porcelain complexion. 

She studies herself carefully, not overlooking a single detail. Her brow wrinkles in annoyance when she spies the tiny blemish beginning to take shape near the corner of her mouth, no doubt the result of the rich, buttery food she's been eating as of late. It is an imperfection that she will most surely not tolerate, or allow to flourish. 

Again she reaches, only this time for a cotton ball and a bottle of skin astringent. Her nimble fingers dip the soft cotton into the acidic formula. She smoothes this liquid over the skin of her entire face, across her eyelids, removing the paint and lines she had painstakingly created just this morning. She smirks with revenge as she feels the tingling of the chemical working its magic. When finally finished, the cotton ball is dropped almost callously into the waste receptacle. 

Now she reaches to pull her shirt over her head, but instead of tossing it aside like the cotton ball, she folds it carefully and sets it aside. The same happens after she tugs her pants down past her hips and steps out of the puddle of material at her feet. Her undergarments go next, and now, wholly exposed, she can't help but shiver against the cold air that attacks her goose pimpled flesh. The steam of the shower beckons to her now. 

Her fingers test the water before she subjects her delicate casing to a possible scalding. As usual, the temperature is just right. She steps in and makes sure the curtain is completely closed before she allows the warmth to slide down her slim body. 

A small gurgle of pleasure escapes her lips as the shower stream massages and washes away the cares and worries of the day. Soon soap and shampoo are added to the mix, and there she loses all track of time. Fingers run through the lathered mass on her head, trailing bubbles down her downy sides. No stone is left unturned, no crease or curve left untouched. Finally, when she's aware that the water has become slightly cooler, she rinses away the foamy residue, watches it swirl down the drain. 

Her slippery hands struggle to turn the knob of the shower off, but she wins in the end, and the stream becomes less and less until only a trickle remains. She smoothes back her soaking hair into a sodden bouquet, squeezing and coaxing the excess water out. 

Reaching out for a towel, her fingers only catch air. She sighs in frustration and curses when she finds the rack empty, a key item in her near perfect plan that she had neglected to ascertain. 

I can't help but smile when I come to this point in my vision. I put my book down, hands folded efficiently on my lap, and wait patiently for her call. She'll be apprehensive at first, perhaps even contemplate sneaking back to her room, but in the end she'll come to her feminine senses. She won't risk being caught dripping and disheveled, in her most vulnerable state. 

"Um, V? _V_?" Her cries reach my ears right on time, and I rise from the soft comfort of the couch to seek another comfort for someone else. 

"Yes, Evey? Did you need something?" 

The bathroom door creaks slowly open, and her face comes into view. Droplets of water create paths down her flushed skin, and I can't help but try to follow their trails when they slide out of view. "I, um.. There aren't any towels left." Her eyes are looking anywhere but at me, "Could you please get me one?" 

"Of course, Evey. But you really should make sure there are towels before you take on such a venture." The tendrils of steam that are curling off her body like tiny snakes are fascinating to me. Through the confines of my mask I inhale the aroma of coconut and citrus, of lavender and fresh soap. I wonder briefly if she'd taste like a combination of all four. 

"I wasn't thinking I guess," she mutters, blushing furiously, her fingers tightening on the door's frame. 

"I'll see if I can find something for you. I'll be right back," I assure her, though never promise, pacing out my steps more slowly than usual. 

She fidgets uncomfortably behind the door, wondering what's taking me so long. Her body is still dripping, and she's shivering slightly now. I'm almost tempted to return with nothing and offer myself up as the cloth she so desperately seeks instead. 

Finally I reappear, holding a neatly folded towel in my hands. She eagerly reaches for it, and I admit, I make her reach a little further than necessary this time. She accidentally brushes my gloved hand with her wet fingers before pulling the towel from my grasp, leaving a smear of water in her wake. 

"Thank you, V," she says throatily, her eyes meeting mine for less than a second before she disappears back into the bathroom. 

I stand there for a moment, and surprisingly enough I'm contemplating following her into that steamy room. But the shrill drone of her blow dryer brings me back to my senses, and I make my way back to my couch, to my book, to my lonely reality. 

Almost half an hour later, Evey reemerges from her chrysalis, but now her transformation is finished. She's completely free of the guise of makeup and fashionable clothing. Her hair is no longer imprisoned at the top if her head, the curled tendrils now wild and unfettered around her clean face. In her hands she struggles to carry the pile of things she believes she needs in order to appear beautiful to herself and others. 

At this moment, unlike myself, she's unmasked and freed, liberated from her own superficial society. I find that I desire her more this way, with her wings outstretched. She becomes something new at night. 

She becomes a butterfly. 

End. 

Please R&R! 


End file.
